


Levend

by Mersheeple



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Death's Other Horse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mersheeple/pseuds/Mersheeple
Summary: The story of Death's other horse...a horse known only as Levend...Death comes, riding high on life.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Levend

**Author's Note:**

> The word Levend is Dutch for Living/Life/Alive.
> 
> This story is a little older and so is a slightly different style. It is also the only story I have for this fandom at the moment...

_Tick...tock...tick...tock...tick...tock_

Every life has a rhythm and then one day, the rhythm slows. And then the rhythm stops. That's when my cousin, Binky, does his job. Binky takes our Master through the fog ( _Why is there always fog?_ ) and DEATH greets the new person like an old friend.

Binky likes sugar cubes and hay. He likes old people. He thinks anything faster than a trot is "ungainly" and insists that, for dramatic effect, DEATH should appear slowly, fading into view. Binky likes drama. And everyone likes Binky, even Albert. He's the sort of horse you _expect_ a tall thin skeleton in a black robe, often carrying a scythe, to ride. He's also DEATH's _favourite_. But he's not the only horse.

Binky is the horse DEATH rides to the lives that have slowed; the old, the ill, the frail. Binky is also the horse that DEATH rides ceremonially. When the four horsemen ride, DEATH rides Binky. When the battle must be won, DEATH rides Binky.

_Tick...tock...tick...tock...ticktockticktock..._

When the rhythm speeds up, when the rhythm never slows...that's when DEATH rides me. I am the horse that canters, the horse that rushes to your end when there is no time for drama.

_Tick...tock...tick...tock...tick...tock..._

All mortal men have a clock. The old may have an hourglass, filled with sand, inscribed with their name in some cursive script. But all men have a clock. When the clock stops, as with any clock, it can be rewound. Another day, another week, another month, another chance, another choice...as long as you can win. DEATH rides in on me, a black stallion with flame mane and tail, burning bright and swirling around my Master. DEATH stands beside me, his scythe glinting in the flames, grin somehow more morbid and terrifying in its intensity, shadows playing over his features and making him look more terrifying. And he stands there, waiting for someone to notice him. 

And they do. Someone always notices us. They walk towards us, eyes full of fear, their youth evident as they realise they could be leaving behind their family and friends far too soon. They stutter and stumble and stammer and don't know what to say. There is no pause for them to realise that this is how it ends. And then DEATH...well...he imprints the words on their mind in a voice similar to the sound of two cement blocks rubbing together. 

**CHESS OR SCRABBLE?**

Master always gives them a choice. Chess is traditional, but so few people are _good_ at chess and Master _**really**_ struggles to lose. Scrabble is much easier for him to lose but usually takes longer. See, Master doesn't _want_ to take the young or the mentally ill or the carefree. Master desperately wants to save them. But there are _rules_. And one thing Master likes, more even than cats, is rules. 

So, I represent the mad, the wild, the free. The last chance of escaping DEATH's cold grip. I am the other horse. I am the last chance, the final hurdle. I am life, I am the choice. Come ride with me and I will show you the madness, the darkness, the light, the beauty. 

Oh yes, before they play the game, before they make that choice, I give them the chance to ride on me. They sit behind my Master and we gallop into time. We show our passengers the best of things; sunrises, sunsets, midday summers and winter nights, beautiful women and handsome men, children playing, good times from their past, great times from their present. We keep them between time so they never age, just get a little wiser maybe... 

And then we bring them back to the second before their clocks stop. And my Master asks his question. And they play with a renewed vigour, with a hope of rewinding that clock. Funny how it's possible to be between time for years, playing a million games as DEATH imprints words again, in his supposition of how a whisper should sound; a voice closer to a piece of sandpaper rubbing against a concrete block... 

**BEST TWO OUT OF THREE...?**

**BEST THREE OUT OF FIVE...?**

**WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY THE HORSE?**

_Tick...tock...tick...tock...tick...tock..._


End file.
